


the words of the prophet are written on the subway walls

by volantium



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Modern AU, actually completed lmfao, az and crowley lowkey become instagram famous for shits and gigs, there's edits in the last chap, update: there's fanart!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2020-04-24 15:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19176277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volantium/pseuds/volantium
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley do the twenty-first century. (Or, Aziraphale and Crowley, dorks in love, post-Apocalypse).





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley’s morning routine goes like this:

He is barely awake before snatching his iPhone from their beside table. He shifts slightly away from Aziraphale’s warmth so his arm doesn’t go numb. He opens Instagram, and scrolls.

And scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls.

This goes on for nearly an hour before he opens another app. Facebook, Twitter, it doesn’t matter. Crowley can’t fathom how devious and mind-numbingly consuming social media is. It is perhaps his biggest regret that he wasn’t the one who invented it; that was all the humans own doing. He did, however, invent the concept of selfies. This shouldn’t come as a surprise – pride has always been his favourite sin alongside lust. 

Aziraphale dozes beside him. Crowley continues to scroll. Life goes on.

* * *

Crowley’s Instagram has become something of hit, if he does say so himself.

It’s mainly black and white. Photos of their apartment, his plants, Aziraphale’s books, that one statue from Germany that he calls an antique and laughs while doing so. There’s the occasional picture of steaming Darjeeling and black coffee side by side, or two glasses of white wine at the Ritz. There’s pictures of the bookshop, gloriously restored, and no matter how hard they try his followers can never quite guess where it is.

Crowley’s favourite seflie isn’t technically a selfie – but he’d taken it with the self-timer and his definition can change whenever he wants. It’s from about the waist up. His suit is black, sharp edges and clean lines as is usual. The one bright flourish of colour comes from the boquet of sunflowers he grins down at. His hair curls over his forehead hiding equally yellow eyes. There’s a glimpse of Aziraphale’s marl sweater just on the edge of the frame. It’s captioned ‘my other half sure knows how to spoil me on saint valentine’s death day’ and Crowley half forgets that he even knew the Saint.

It’s been a handful of years since then. People continue to comment, asking the most inane questions, fawning, fantasising over whether they want him or want to be him. He marvels over how humans can fixate on one individual.

It’s all very Jesus and his twelve disciples, Crowley thinks. It doesn't hurt that he gets a commendation every time his follower count hits a milestone.

Time passes, and autumn turns everything orange around them. It’s nothing more than the colour of the leaves that prompts him to post the photo of Aziraphale to his thousands of followers.

They’d taken an afternoon walk through the winding pathways near the bookshop. The sun was low, a deep flame of colour through the trees. Crowley had been snapping pictures of the flowers when he’d turn to Aziraphale. Breathless, is the only thing he remembers being. And Aziraphale, framed perfectly by the sunlight through red, orange, yellow leaves. Bright blue eyes sparking and blonde curls a halo. Crowley had taken the photo before he’d even registered the movement.

He doesn’t caption it because he and Aziraphale cannot be quantified by words. The only thing he remembers thinking in that morning is how ethereal Aziraphale looked, and _this_.

Aziraphale kissed him softly, slowly, beautifully. It tasted like Falling. Thousands and thousands of years have passed, and if there is anything Crowley has learnt, it is this; a life without Aziraphale would be no life at all.

* * *

Lately, he’s been thinking about the Garden.

Never-changing spring in all its resplendence. Righteous Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate, sword and grace blazing. He, the Serpent of Eden, leaving ruin in his wake.

Crowley doesn’t – can’t – forget the first time he saw Aziraphale. The angel had ventured into the Garden, one of the rare occasions that he’d left his post. Crawly, basking in the sun watched the angelic being close in on him. Known as the Adversary then, Aziraphale didn’t resemble anything human shaped. He’d been more of a ball of bright light, moving gently through the trees. The angel’s grace had burnt the first time Crawly felt it. Aziraphale was a beacon, even then.

“How did you get in the Garden?” The Adversary had asked, spoken into a space only the two of them could hear.

Adam and Eve walked past them. Adam strides ahead, barely giving them a glance. Eve, on the other hand, pauses.

“Through the gate. How else?” Crawly had hissed back.

In front of them Eve turned. It was as if she looks right into Crawly’s very soul - or what little of it remained wrapped in warped grace. Her eyes pierced him. Stripped bare, as if she was God herself, his soul set on fire. Beside him the Angel of the Eastern Gate had stilled. Time had ceased and suspended the three of them in a moment of clarity.

Clarity, Crawly hadn’t realised, until much later, when he watched the two of the them leave, a flaming sword their only protection.

He remembers Eve and Adam swimming in the stream. The sun turned all it touched to gold; the water glittered, and spring eternal bloomed. Crawly watched fruit grow on the Tree of Knowledge and had thought _perhaps this would be the perfect place to start._

Adam, in the beginning, was strong. As befitting him who was made in God’s image. Crowley remembers this like he remembers that Eve was made in Man’s image. That god with a capital G had taken his rib and from dust brought forth her. Her, Eve, the glory of the Garden of Eden. Who had succumbed to the Serpent and was the first human to Fall.

He thinks about how she lusted for the apple, lusted for Knowledge. Her quest valiant and yet -

He tends to circle back to Eve, and how she wasn’t so much as Tempted but rather took control of her own Destiny.

* * *

They technically don’t have to actually _do_  grocery shopping, but Aziraphale loves people watching, and Crowley hasn’t been able to say ‘no’ to the angel in over six thousand years.

They spend probably – definitely – too many hours wondering the aisle of the local Tesco. Crowley grabbed a shopping cart on their way in for prosperity’s sake. Now it’s barely a third full with various bits and bops they don’t need, and even if they did, it’s not like they couldn’t miracle them into existence. Aziraphale has decided on an inordinate amont of expensive scotch fingers. One of them tossed a sponge in. They’ve reached the checkout when Crowley realises.

“Angel,” Crowley says, turning to Aziraphale. “Did I grab any coffee?”

It’s nigh on incomprehensible that he’s forgotten. Coffee is to Crowley as tea is to Aziraphale; an essential part of self.

Aziraphale scans their items on the conveyer belt, “Gosh, no, I’ll run and grab some.”

The cashier coughs, and Crowley’s attention is back on her. Her eyes flicker between him and over to wherever Aziraphale has disappeared too. Crowley raises a brow, stoic, because he’s had his fair share of homophobic assholes. They both have.

The girl blanches, “No, no I - I follow you on Instagram. I really love your more monochromatic stuff.”

“I do some of my best work in black and white,” Crowley replies, as if there isn’t a million meanings to that single sentence.

“So,” she says, in a tone that Crowley loves because it means _vice_ rather than virtue. “How long have you two been together?”

“Me and Az? It feels like a lifetime.”

“His name is Az? That’s so cool.” 

Crowley smirks, “It’s short for Aziraphale. Religious parents, you know?”

The cashier laughs, and Crowley can’t help but join in. The tingle up his spin and brush of grace herald Aziraphale’s return. In his hand is Crowley’s coveted coffee.

“Thank you, darling,” Crowley murmurs, just loud enough for the girl to hear, ducking his head to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s blonde curls. They rarely do public displays of affection, but Crowley feels sentimental. It really _has_ been a lifetime, one that he is beyond grateful for. Aziraphale is and always will be his anchor, and sometimes Crowley thinks he doesn’t show that enough.

Aziraphale smiles at him, catches his hand and tangles their fingers together. Crowley passes his card over and Aziraphale lifts their joined hands to brush his lips against Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley could swoon, right then and there. It’s been twenty years, it’s been a lifetime of them together in one way or another, and Aziraphale’s kisses still feel like a blessing. Like washing his soul clean, just enough to be a good person. The cashier hands over his receipt and Crowley would blanch if money was an issue to an angel and a demon.

Those scotch fingers really _are_ expensive.

* * *

Sometimes Crowley thinks about the days Before.

He can’t remember much. His past as an angel has become a tangle of grace and memory and uncertainty. Every now and again, there’s the sudden rush of vertigo as déjà vu hits. Usually it happens just has Aziraphale has said something, a specific phrase in low cadence, or affects a certain mannerism that Crowley’s never seen before but swears he _has._ It’s a glimpse of Before. The memory overlaps the present in a wash of white, gold, silver, and for a moment everything glows. In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale is just as gorgeous as he is now in Heaven.

He wonders whether or not they were as they are now; were they even friends, let alone lovers? was Aziraphale the same fixed point that he’s orbited around for the last millennia? His memories whisper _yes_ , and Crowley can only hope.

It is no secret, after all, the God herself struck the memory of the Fallen from Heaven’s host.

After is the Fall. Much like Eve, who only asked a question of Fate, Crowley’s Fall was in the quest of knowledge. He may have sauntered downward, but even that is a memory he’d rather forget.

After is his love for Aziraphale. Theirs is a love story stretching across thousands of years, throughout history, prevailing against the End of Days. He thinks of Anathema and Newt, and wonders if he and Aziraphale, too, were prophesised.

After is Falling, but they are one and the same, really.

Sometimes Crowley thinks about the days Before, and how vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling and the desire to fall.

* * *

Crowley returns home and finds Aziraphale slouched on the couch. The television is playing Antique Roadshow, and often Crowley has wondered if Aziraphale didn’t have a role in founding it. It takes a certain design to create something so equally monotonously boring and fascinating.

“Aziraphale?” He calls out, moving through to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Please, dearest.”

It’s unlike Aziraphale to be home so early. Aziraphale is a creature of habit; Tuesdays are early days, not Thursdays. That, however, doesn’t click until he’s halfway through making the cup of Darjeeling. And yes, he is actually making it. Aziraphale would have his head if he imagined _tea_ into existence. It’s one of the sacred tenants of their Arrangement; to no longer interfere with the politics of Heaven and Hell, to remain forever neutral in the wake of the Notpocolypse, and to not make a miracle of tea. So, consequently, Crowley drops the spoon and liquid goes sloshing over the rim of the cup once he realises that Aziraphale is home early.

He finishes the tea anyway. If something is wrong, tea is usually a good solution, Crowley has found.

“You’re home early,” he says, as blunt as a hammer as he sets the cup on the coffee table. “Did something happen at the shop?”

By the surprised look on Aziraphale’s face is anything to go by, Crowley would say he hit the nail on the head, pardon the pun.

“Someone recognised me.” 

Crowley’s heart nearly stops, before he can remember that there’s no way it could be Hastur or Ligur or anyone else from Down Below. He stands by the couch, Aziraphale staring up at him with his arms crossed.

“Someone recognised you?” 

“That _is_ what I said, Crowley.”

He loves snippy Aziraphale. Just so long as it isn’t direct at him. Crowley goes to ask what on Earth he even means when Aziraphale beats him to it.

“One of your _followers,”_ Aziraphale says. “From Instagram.”

It’s a testament to how much Crowley talks about it that Aziraphale even remembers the name. The angel has never been big on social media - has fundamentally rejected it, obviously. It comes as no surprise that he’s constantly telling Crowley how downright  _evil_ it is that he’s partaking.

Still. Crowley isn’t used to concept of fame. They’ve been around for eons and eons and nothing could matter less. He makes an inquisitive noise. Aziraphale catches his eye, and _oh._ He doesn’t look happy.

Something must show on his face, because Aziraphale softens and says, “I didn’t realise I was on it.” 

Crowley has to think for a moment - he rarely ever posts anything about Aziraphale on there anyways. He realises with a start that it’s the photo he took a handful of weeks ago, out on their afternoon walk. It’s the one with Aziraphale, radiant underneath red leaves. It’s the only shocking splash of colour on his entire feed.

It’s also his favourite photo.

He fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and shows it to Aziraphale without a word. He doesn’t need to explain - they know each other too intricately for that.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, soft and tender. “You should’ve said.”

It’s sounds so much like _I love you._

Crowley leans over the coffee table to press a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, “Maybe I just like showing you off, angel.”

Aziraphale can read the reply _and I you, to the end of my days._

“Of course you do, you slippery snake,” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley laughs.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale creates the Instagram account purely for one reason and one reason only: to keep up with what Crowley’s posting.

There’s something poetic in that, oddly. He thinks of _you go to fast for me, Crowley,_ and how that hasn’t really changed in a millennium. Once upon a time he would’ve balked at even the thought of involving himself in social media. After everything, however, Aziraphale is more in the mood to find out what it’s all about. He’s become so much more rebellious since the Notpocalypse. Now, perhaps it’s not so much _you go to fast for me_ but rather _we go just the right speed._

But Aziraphale wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not now. They defied their respective sides to avert the Apocalypse. They defied their respective sides for _each other_. Keeping up is the least he could do.

Besides, the sheer warmth he feels whenever Crowley posts about _him_ is too good to give up. And it’s not like he still doesn’t tell Crowley how positively sinfulit is.

Crowley, of course, finds it so very amusing.

* * *

“Angel,” he hears Crowley call from downstairs in the bookshop. “Did you just comment on my Instagram post?”

Aziraphale looks up; he’s so far deep in this translation of the _Odyssey_ that a moment to even process what Crowley said. In the next moment, Crowley is beside him, placing a cup of tea by his elbow with an eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale murmurs a quiet thank you and takes a sip before replying, “Well, yes, though it was about an hour or so ago.”

“Semantics. When did you get Instagram? _Why?_ ”

“It’s – well,” Aziraphale begins, “that is to say, I thought it might be a good idea.”  
  
“ _A good idea?”_

“Really, my dear, you don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Crowley looks at him in disbelief. Aziraphale can’t really blame him after all. It’s not every day that an angel thinks a demonic idea a good one. Even if their definition of angel and demon is fuzzy at best.

“Crowley, honestly. We – you – keep getting recognised whenever we’re out which is _very_ counterproductive, I must say, and you aren’t going to stop posting about me. It was only logical.”

The only way Aziraphale can describe the look on Crowley’s face is curious. Usually, that means something, but he can’t tell what.

“Okay.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yeah, okay, angel.” Crowley says, serene smile that Aziraphale doesn’t trust for a minute. “Does this mean I can tag you in stuff now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Crowley presses a kiss to his cheek, “Cheers, love.”

Aziraphale can already tell he’s going to regret this. 

* * *

It's really not until Crowley posts the picture from their dinner that his follower account starts to sky rocket. They had popped over to Venice on a whim. Or so Aziraphale maintains. He refuses to think that it’s because he really hasn’t shut up about the Italian-Japanese sushi fusion place he’s been absolutely dying to try. Thinking about that causes his stomach to flip flop over itself, because it’s not often they do Official Date Nights, and Heaven forbid that Crowley remembers him talking about it.

(Aziraphale refuses to believe that up until they actually get to the restaurant, and Crowley looks at him in the soft light of dusk, eyes flickering against the single lamp at the table.

“It was worth it, Aziraphale,” Crowley says apropos of nothing, lifting the glass of wine to his lips.

“Oh?”

“I have loved you,” Crowley replies, and Aziraphale can feel his heart beat staccato in his chest. “For thousands of years, and everything I have ever done was worth it, to be here with you.”  
  
He’s breathless, speechless, filled with such _yearning_ that he leans over the table and sets Crowley’s wine glass down before cradling the demon’s face in his hands. His fingertips brush against Crowley’s cheekbone, resting just at the edge of the snake along his jaw. The miniscule tilt of Crowley’s head is enough for him to press a slow kiss to Crowley’s lips. The edge of the table digs into his hips, but _Christ,_ he can’t even think.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers, barely breathing. “So much, that I can no longer tell where I end, and you begin.”)

Crowley had snapped a rather lovely photo of the aforementioned sushi – also rather lovely. Definitely worth all the chatting about. He doesn’t tag Aziraphale in the caption; instead it’s on his story.

The picture itself of him is stunning – or at least, that’s what Aziraphale would say, if he was so inclined to vanity. He’s looking out over the canal, wine in hand, the setting sun hitting his hair _just so._ It’s incredibly similar to the photo Crowley posted all those months ago, from their walk back in autumn.

His brief, fifteen second appearance with the mention @aziraphale is enough for Crowley’s followers to find his profile. Which, Aziraphale knows, was exactly Crowley’s plan. He sowed the seeds all the way back with the first post and his _maybe I just like showing you off, angel._

He’s not as half as devious as he leads Aziraphale to be; or, maybe, Aziraphale just knows him too well, after six thousand years.

Aziraphale supposes it’s his own fault, somewhat; he _did_ comment ‘dearest’ after all.  The followers are just a side effect.

* * *

The memory comes unbidden; an angel and a demon, watching Eve and Adam against the Desert.

Aziraphale remembers handing over the Sword; that he can never forget. The same sickening, stomach-turning feeling comes along with it as it does every time.

Impulsive, his is first thought. Stupid, is the second. He always come back to the same question: did he do the right thing? It’s been six thousand years and he still wonders. He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and still let Adam and Eve leave. Encouraged them, even. Aziraphale was Righteous, then. Believed in the Ineffable Plan with every atom of his being. That in itself should be enough to justify his every action as Good.

He remembers handing the sword to Adam, and thinks, maybe he should have given to Eve. He wonders if Crowley has ever thought the same.

What Aziraphale doesn’t remember is the way that Crowley looked at him. As if Aziraphale was the Sun, burning too bright to look at. For Crowley knew what it was to question authority. He Fell for it. It has been a Miracle that Aziraphale hasn’t. Perhaps this is where they differ. Crowley question authority before he knew how to love, whereas Aziraphale loved before he questioned authority.

It was the first day that it had rained, inside the Garden.

Aziraphale thinks he should have realised that sign for what it was, rather than what he thought it to be.

Not the End, but rather, the Beginning. 

* * *

 

The bell jingles over the door as he’s putting some new books away. Aziraphale huffs a sigh, leaving his desk to go dissuade whatever lost soul as set foot in his bookshop. Crowley is dozing on the chaise lounge, basking in the sun like a proper snake. Aziraphale loathes to leave him. He looks soft in a way that Aziraphale rarely sees.

But he does, lest someone actually purchases one of his books.

He makes his way to the cash register, his customary spot. He’s found it so much easier to convince ‘customers’ that they don’t need books when they’re just about to buy them. The cash register doesn’t work, of course. It’s not like he’s ever needed it to. It’s also an antique, not connected to the power, and is almost definitely rusted in a few spots. Aziraphale has always liked the look of it.

Today’s customer is a boy in his teens, only a handful of years older that Adam. He looks around the bookshop in awe. Aziraphale can’t help but smile. It’s always good to know that the youth are still enamored by knowledge.

Aziraphale’s been sitting at the register for what seems like a frankly inordinate amount of time before the boy comes up with a number of books. One of which, includes his first edition of _The Picture of_ _Dorian Gray,_ signed by Wilde himself. He’s halfway through an explanation of _why_ his books shouldn’t be bought when he notices the boy’s eyes flicker to something over his shoulder. Arms slide around his neck in a loose hug and a pointy chin digs into his hair.

“Angel,” Crowley sounds sleep-warm and soft, and likely hasn’t noticed their guest. “The sun moved.”

“Hush, dear, I was just about to tell this fine young gentleman why I can’t _bear_ to part with that copy of Wilde.”

The boy looks almost shocked, if Aziraphale was to put a name to it. He’s still clutching the first edition. If only Aziraphale could get him to just –

“Leave the poor boy be, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “Let him have the book. I can’t sleep.”

Aziraphale is too preoccupied by _let him have the book_ to notice that the kid mouths Crowley’s name, despite the fact he hasn’t said it.

“ _Let him have the book –_ Crowley, _what._ ”

“I’ll buy you another.”

“Crowley you _know_ how much that edition means to me, honestly –”

“Az,” It isn’t often Crowley calls him anything other than Aziraphale or angel, and this shortening often spells disaster. “Az, c’mon, you know I can’t sleep without you.”

Aziraphale melts, just a little at that. He titles his head back, incidentally resting more solidly against Crowley to catch his eye. There’s no small amount of mischief hiding behind those sunglasses.

“Sorry –” a voice cuts in, drawing Aziraphale attention to back to the boy currently holding his favourite copy of _Dorian Gray_. “Sorry, you’re Crowley, right? And Aziraphale?”  

Aziraphale can _feel_ Crowley perk up at that as he says, “You must follow us on Instagram?”

The boy nods, shifting his weight nervously, and it’s then that Aziraphale notices the pride flag pinned to his bag. There mustn’t be a coincidence between that and the way Crowley’s hand comes to rest on the junction of his neck and shoulder, fingers just dipping underneath Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Yeah. I didn’t realise this was _the_ bookshop, though, when I came in.”  
  
“What do you mean, _the_ bookshop?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale has a chance to.

“The one you’re always posting pictures in,” the boy nods to Crowley. “And you’re caption _does_ say that you’re a purveyor of fine books.”

Aziraphale and Crowley share a glance, before the former says, “That is very true.”

It’s not like Aziraphale or Crowley actively go out of their way to hide the bookshop per se, but it’s definitely because a more concentrated effort since the Apocalypse and Crowley’s Instagram fame. Aziraphale usually put it down to a miracle or two, but it’s evident now that that no longer works.

“I’d be incredibly grateful if it was kept that way,” Aziraphale says. “We value our privacy greatly.”

The boy smiles, “Of course, so long as I can get this?”

He lifts the copy of _Dorian Gray_ onto the counter. Crowley’s hand tightens into a fist against his skin.

“Just – oh – just take it.”

The boy smiles blindly at them before rushing out of the store with a rushed “Thank you!”

“I hope that was worth it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, later, once they’re back on the lounge curled against one another.

“Of course it was,” Crowley murmurs against his throat. “You’re basically the patron saint of queers at this point, angel. What’s one copy of Wildeto a world of gay literature? It's not like we didn't know the man.”

“I suppose.”  
  
In the morning, there’ll be a new first edition copy of Dorian Gray sitting on their bedside table, and Aziraphale will brush a hand through Crowley’s dark hair in thanks. But that’s in the morning.

* * *

Some days Aziraphale will get home from the shop to find Crowley on the couch underneath a veritable mountain of blankets. Usually Netflix will be on the telly, or the there’s a vinyl spinning. There’s been a lot of Hozier playing in their flat recently.

Today is the latter. Except instead of Hozier, it’s the familiar cords of _Clair de Lune._

It’s one of those songs that Aziraphale think of as coming home to. It makes the afternoon seem so much more alive. The warm sun turns everything it touches gold, specks of dust floating like stars, and the piano cords are almost magical.

They’ve known each other far too long for Aziraphale not to understand the mood that Crowley’s in.

It happens to both of them, every now and again. It’s _hard_ being cut off from Heaven and Hell. They’re no longer in the loop, no longer beholden to any divine, ineffable plan. There no longer the need for Crowley to fill his quota of dastardly deeds, or for Aziraphale to thwart them. The only news they get is passed along by Adam, and it’s not as if Either Side are in the good graces of the Antichrist.

Aziraphale often thinks of it as being directionless, but he knows for Crowley it’s much more akin to feeling lost. Crowley’s life – what they both remember it as – has always been defined by Hell. It’s a shock to the system to not have that structure anymore, regardless if it’s for Crowley’s own benefit.

He makes his way through to the kitchen, making a cup of hot cocoa. He fills at least half of it with marshmallows before deeming it to be up to Crowley’s standard. On his way back to the loungeroom, he picks up his copy of the Odyssey before dropping onto the couch, cup of cocoa placed on the coffee table. Crowley moves seemingly on autopilot for Aziraphale to slip behind him, one arm coming round to rest gently against Crowley’s hip. Crowley is a solid weight against his side. Aziraphale presses a kiss to his temple before settling in thoroughly and flicking through to his bookmark.

It’s probably been twenty minutes before Crowley’s rough voice says, “Read to me?”

He starts at the beginning, because that is what he always does, and Crowley never complains. _Clair de Lune_ continues to play without interruption.

“Tell me of a complicated man. Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost…”

They’re well into Odysseus’ tale before Aziraphale notices that Crowley has his phone out, recording an Instagram story of Aziraphale reading to him. Crowley’s black hair is just in frame, and it’s clear that they’re cuddling on the lounge. He isn’t tagged in it this time, but there’s a string of emojis that Aziraphale doesn’t know how to interpret.

There’s a silent question in Crowley’s golden eyes.

Aziraphale reaches over Crowley to hit the post button in answer. Some things are just done better together, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i promise i'm done - last actual update, however out of order. the edits will remain in the last chap. the odyssey translation that az is reading is by emily wilson


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i created some graphics because apparently my brain won't let the very specific image i have for this au go. i also don't actually know if that's venice or not lmfao // please don't repost them anywhere

 

The biggest thank you to the amazing [Rose](https://good-old-fashioned-lovey-girl.tumblr.com/post/611698313378643968/its-from-about-the-waist-up-his-suit-is), who commissioned this piece from the incredibly talented [Selene](https://selene-yoshi-chan.tumblr.com) of Crowley's Valentine's Day post 🥰

 

**Author's Note:**

> just a lil something i've had bouncing around in my head for a while. i wrote most of it before i watched the show. title is from simon and garfunkel's the sound of silence because i couldn't help myself. find me @lordgreyjoy on tumblr x


End file.
